  Merely the moonlight Piercing the boughs of my may-tree, Falling upon my ferns; Only the night Touching my ferns with silver bloom Of sea-flowers here in the sleeping city— And suddenly the imagination burns With knowledge of many a dark significant doom Out of antiquity, Sung to hushed halls by troubadours Who knew the ways of the heart because they had seen The moonlight washing the garden’s deeper green To silver flowers, Falling with tidings out of the moon, as now It falls on the ferns under my may-tree bough. |
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